Then Dev suggested the yoga studio and I knew I needed to make healthier choices. I lost fat, gained muscle, and even though I’m three sizes larger than I was when I was modeling I’ve never felt more comfortable in my skin.
“Can I have these?” Sam hands me a pack of donuts and I check the ingredients.
“Nope. Too many preservatives. Go find something else,” I tell him while strolling down the dairy aisle, filling the cart with eggs, milk, and yogurt. I ate so badly when I was a kid that I’ve always been very careful with what I feed Sam.
I’m loading groceries into the back of my SUV when I hear the telltale sound of a truck that won’t start. Two cars over, a beat-up pickup sputters and dies.
An older gentleman gets out wearing dark blue jeans with a crease ironed into them and a sweater vest over his shirt, high quality even though it’s frayed at the edges. He’s tall and big-boned and must’ve been strapping as a young man. Handsome too. Now, however, the permanent curve of his back and the helmet of thick, snow-white hair suggests he’s closing in on eighty.
My staring must have gotten his attention because he glances at me and smiles. He then takes two shopping bags out of the flat bed and starts walking out of the parking lot. As I watch him go, my heart climbs up my throat and my conscience screams at me. I can’t let this man walk home.
“Should we give him a ride?”
Sam looks up at me. Then his gaze slides across the parking lot at the old man walking slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah.”
“This is an exception because he’s really old and it’s hot, okay? Always remember stranger danger.”
Sam nods.
Driving up next to the man, I slide down the passenger side window and lean over the console to meet his eyes. “Sir, would you like a ride?”
He looks at me, then at Sam sitting in the back seat. “You sure it’s alright?”
“Were do you live?”
“Newhope Lane.”
“That’s where we live! I mean, that’s where we’re staying. Hop in.”
Smiling, the deep crevices on his face that come with age grow more pronounced. “Okay, thank you,” he says and walks around the back. I pop the trunk for him to load his grocery bags. Once he’s in the front seat and buckled in he leans closer and extends a hand, fingers stiff and bent from arthritis. “Walter Beasely. Pleased to meet you.”
I shake his hand. “Amanda Shaw. And this is my son, Sam.”
As coincidence would have it, Walter lives four doors down on the opposite side of the street in a butter yellow Cape Cod-style bungalow. The house is beautifully kept, with a border of perennials and annuals that I’ve admired every time I’ve walked Roxy past the house. I didn’t want to be impolite and ask but my suspicion is that Walter lives alone. I make a mental note to invite him over for dinner soon.
As soon as we get back home, I begin cooking dinner, cleaning and stir-frying the fresh vegetables for my healthy version of pasta primavera. After that, we’re having pan-fried fresh-caught grey sole.
That’s when an idea strikes. I’ll offer an olive branch. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’ll make the first move, offer an apology of sorts, and we can do away with the awkwardness hanging between us. Or more accurately, the hate on his part.
Once the kitchen table is set and the food prepped, I go in search of Hendricks. The sound of a television coming from my brother’s home office tugs me in that direction. With the open doorway, I step inside and find my dog, the same dog I was worried about leaving home with the angry nudist, sprawled like the shameless hussy she is on top of Hendricks’ naked chest. I barely earn two whips of her tail when she sees me. This is what I get for saving her life. Freaking traitor.
Hendricks’ attention is glued to the television while he mindlessly rubs Roxy’s ear. At some point his aversion to wearing shirts needs to be addressed. Not now, though. Now I have a peace accord to negotiate.
“Hendricks.”
I get nothing, no acknowledge of my presence. He continues doing what he’s doing without even a glance in my direction. I’m pretty sure he’s actively ignoring me. Which makes me self-conscious. My long arms––I have really long arms and legs––suddenly feel like ungainly appendages, hanging like limp noodles by my side. Cocking a hip, I jam my hands in the back pockets of my jean cut-offs.
There’s a football game on the flat screen television fixed to the wall, a Titans game. He hits rewind twice, watching the same scene play over and over.
On closer inspection I see that it’s him, getting hit from behind, his body bending at an unnatural angle. Just watching it hurts. I can’t imagine what experiencing it must’ve felt like.